


With his long hair, as ragged as rain and black as thunder...

by wolfinthethorns



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7806448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfinthethorns/pseuds/wolfinthethorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a post on Tumblr about 19th Century hair-care, and how it involved an awful lot of brushing. This then got me thinking about Childermass and his long hair, and how having your hair brushed can be a very intimate thing <s>because I don't have a kink</s>, and how it fitted with my headcanons about him having massive attachment and trust issues regarding intimacy. And then this happened: five scenes from childhood to shortly after the magical restoration, in which John Childermass has his hair groomed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October 1780

Dusk crept like a stalking animal into the tumbledown cottage on the edge of the woods. Through the broken windowpanes, the lamps down in Whitby started to twinkle, but their fragile light could not hold back the gloom within. Not that John was scared of the dark - he was nine now, much too old to be scared of the dark his mam said -  but it was making it awfully hard to see to get the fire going. Flint struck iron, a tiny spark jumped on to the kindling, and before he could draw breath, died, again. John’s eyes prickled, his chest felt tight, but he held it in; children cried. He cursed. Men cursed, and the tightness in his chest passed a little, only to be replaced by a burning in his cheeks and he looked around, hunted, to make sure no one had heard him. The other children were all asleep in a pile in what had been the pantry, where it was drier, and John was alone. He would not sleep until his mam got home. The dark might not scare him, but the thought his mam wouldn’t come home did.

 

He went back to his fire: tink, tink, a yelp when he caught his thumb, tink, huff, curse. The scrape of wood on flagstone broke through his concentration like a whipcrack; before he knew it, he was facing the door, crouched in the shadows, his sharp little knife clutched in a white-knuckled fist. Only when there was a familiar rustle of skirts, and a soft “Johnny, what are you doing?” did he relax, sheathing the knife and shuffling out of his hiding place like a small woodland creature.

“I were trying to make a fire,” he said, gesturing limply at the cold fireplace, “I thought you’d like it…”. There was the prickling in his eyes again; he stared at the floor and let his hair fall down to hide his shame. When he peeked up again, his mam was knelt in front of him, softly brushing the grubby strands from his face. The full-moon was rising over the bay, and in it’s glow her face looked sad and tired.

“Oh Johnny,” she sighed, “you know we can’t, lad, folks might see the light and it’s not…” She glanced out the window, a mist was rising, “Oh all right, we’ll have just a little fire, just for a little while, just for you and me.”

 

Joan made short work of lighting the fire, and soon a small half circle of warmth and light spilled across the bare flags. Sitting down in front of it, she pulled her son into her lap, wrapping her tatty cloak around them both. He tried to squirm away, saying that he wanted to fetch the apple's he'd stolen for her, but she held him fast.

“We’ll have them for breakfast, petal, you just stay with me for now.”

Johnny did not protest, for once, and settled in against her, their breathing falling into the same rhythm. Joan began to gently card her fingers through the boy’s hair, teasing out the tangles and mats. Sometimes, without meaning to, she tugged, and his shoulders would tense, but Johnny did not cry out. Children cried out. While she worked, Joan began to sing, a soft, mournful tune with words Johnny did not understand, but that soothed him and made his eyelids heavy.

“What are you singing, mam?”

“Just a lullaby, love, from when I were little”

“Is it in French?”

She laughed, the swell of her chest rocking him, “No, no it’s not in French.”

“What’s it in then?” he asked, curious and awake now.

Joan went still, not even breathing for a moment, “It’s just nonsense words, Johnny love, pay it no mind”

And now that tight feeling was back in Johnny’s chest, the cold seeping into him despite the fire in front of them and despite his mother’s warmth at his back. Joan went back to combing his tangled curls, but it wasn’t the same. She began to sing again, a song Johnny new well this time:

_“Not long, not long my father said,_

_Not long shall you be ours,_

_The Raven King knows all too well_

_Which are the fairest flowers…”_

 

She stopped, suddenly; she was studying a lock of his dark hair, and in the dancing shadows he couldn’t make out whether her face was happy or sad.

“Just like your daddy’s hair,” she said, and Johnny thought it sounded like she was smiling.

“And yours,” he replied, gently twisting around his thin fingers a strand of her hair that had escaped it’s bun.

“And mine,” she laughed softly, “but more like your daddy’s.” She hugged him unexpectedly tightly, forcing a little “erk!” of surprise out of him, and kissed him fiercely on the top of the head, “Promise me you won’t get it cut short?”

“I promise, mam.”

“Good”, and with that, she rubbed her face in his hair and planted tickley kisses all over it, making him giggle and squirm. The tightness and the cold in his chest had gone again - he was safe, he was loved.

“Sing us the one about the highwaywoman”, he yawned. And Joan did. But he didn’t hear it, by the refrain he was asleep.

 

 


	2. September 1784

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you've not seen it yet, it probably helps to read this short fic, [The Stowaway](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7839460) for context.

Below decks was dark, the yellow light from the oil lamps casting deep shadows outside the circumference of their glow. Perhaps, if one was not paying attention, one might not have noticed the bundle of rags behind a coil of rope, propped up against a barrel of beer, had it not moved.

 

Johnny shifted in his makeshift nest, rummaging in his pockets. Voices and singing and the thin music of a penny-whistle drifted down from the crew's quarters, boots scraped on wood above on deck, the soft, rhythmic slap of waves on the hull below. Here in the pitch-scented, salt-scented gloom, he let himself relax a little. Being at sea wasn’t too terrible, he supposed, even if half the crew wished to throw him overboard for being a nuisance, and the other half for being bad luck, whatever that meant. But the captain had the bearing of a man of honour, and so Johnny supposed that so long as he kept his head down and kept out the way, it was likely he would make it back to Hull in one piece. He pulled a biscuit from his pocket, and gave it a suspicious sniff - it didn’t smell of very much - and a cursory nibble. It didn’t taste of very much, either, but food was food and Johnny would take what he could get, so long as he break his teeth on the damned thing.

 

The thump of footsteps sounded along the corridor, and he started. As the footsteps grew louder, closer, Johnny held absolutely still, silently cursing the fact he had nothing to cover himself with. It went more dark yet as an ursine figure stepped between him and the nearest lantern. The shadows swung dizzyingly as the figure hooked down the light and began to survey the hold. When the light fell on Johnny it was dazzling, and he couldn’t help but blink hard. When he opened his eyes again, First Mate Paine’s broad, smiling face was on a level with his own,

“Ah, capital! There you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

“I di'n’t do it!” Johnny blurted out.

Paine gave him an ironical smile, “Oh, I have reason to believe you did, but in any case that’s not why I was looking for you.”

Johnny pocketed the biscuit again, hoping it had gone unnoticed.

“Upton tells me you were a quite a challenge earlier, when he was tasked with making you presentable,” continued Paine. Johnny’s hand shot up to clutch his own hair protectively. “Well, quite. So, I’ve come to explain to you a little about life on-board, and to give you your options. You see, young Johnny, living at close quarters like this, it's terribly easy for contamination to spread; disease, lice, and so on. Consequently, good hygiene is essential and the captain is a stickler for it. And if, and at this point it is very much an if, you are to be allowed to keep your hair long then we need to get it combed out to make sure you're not about to go spreading contamination. So, as to your options, you can come peacefully of your own volition and allow yourself to be combed, or you can be shaved whether you like it or not. Personally," Paine finished, drawing himself up to his full, rather imposing height, "I'd rather avoid unpleasantness, so consider your decision carefully."

Johnny considered his options carefully. He was cornered; moreover he was cornered by someone who would have no difficulty in overpowering him. Ruefully, Johnny submitted, and slunk out of his corner, mute and sullen.

"Good lad," said Paine cheerfully, and lay a hand lightly on Johnny's shoulder, "after you."

 

Johnny braced against the inevitable shove, but it never came. Rather, to his surprise, he was guided gently to the forecastle where the light was good. Paine motioned to him to sit upon the table, and, retrieving a comb from his pockets, stood behind him and began to make work of Johnny's tangled hair. He tugged - of course he tugged - and with each sharp pain Johnny's shoulders twitched involuntarily. After some five or six of these twitches, Paine stopped, paced around the table to face his young charge, sat down upon the bench and rested his chin on his hand, regarding the boy thoughtfully.

"It may come as some surprise," he said at last, "but I have no particular desire to hurt you. This is a practical matter, not some torture devised to put you in your place. However, if you do not wish for me to continue hurting you, you must tell me when I am so I can change my method. Do you understand?"

Johnny studied the big man's face for a moment. It was, in his estimation, more the face of a priest than a sailor. Well, he supposed, the kindly sort of country priest who still saw fit to suffer little children, not the bitter, hell-fire and damnation spitting priests of the towns.  In any case, he had little option but to trust his unwitting tormentor's good will, and he nodded assent.

"Capital!" beamed Paine, gave Johnny an avuncular little pat on the knee, and went back to work.

"Start from the ends," said Johnny softly through gritted teeth.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Start from the ends... If y'start from top, all the tangles get pushed into each other and y'make it worse."

And without a word, this was how Paine continued, combing out each strand at a time, gripping it near the root so as not to tug, and teasing out each tangle from the tips upwards. From time to time a tangle would prove too stubborn, and Johnny would emit a soft, if oddly mechanical "ow", and Paine would pause and resume his task more carefully. A peacable silence settled, man and boy content to listen to the sea and the wind, the creak of wood and the muffled voices on deck. Being at sea really wasn't so terrible, thought Johnny wearily, now that it seemed there was at least one person who didn't wish him harm. 


	3. January, 1816

Quite how John Childermass came to be sat on the floor of the guest bedroom he was not quite sure. He had been doing... _something_... although at this moment he could not recall what, and now here he was, and his shoulder hurt terribly. There was a comb on the floor beside him, and as through the fog of pain and disorientation what he'd been doing began to dawn on him, the door opened suddenly and a somewhat out-of-breath looking Hannah burst in. As she regarded him sat on the floor, her expression flitted from fear to concern to exasperation, and then back to concern. He gave her a weak, apologetic smile, which had the effect of returning her to exasperation, albeit of a more relieved type. 

"What have you done now, you daft bugger?" she sighed, coming to kneel beside him, "Are you hurt?"

Childermass huffed a small laugh, and winced, and said "No more than usual, I suppose," which earned him a glare. He tried to stand up, but the pain in his shoulder made him gasp. He gave Hannah an imploring look, and although she rolled her eyes and shook her head, she supported his un-shot side and helped him back onto the bed. Even with assistance, the manoeuvre was a great strain, and for a moment the bedroom greyed out and the vast, cold sky and dreary hills seemed unsettlingly close to Childermass. When the room swam back into his vision, Hannah was frowning at him.

"I'm fine, lass, thank you," he said tiredly, "no need to fret, you can return to your duties. I'll not keep you."

But Hannah did not move from where she was sat beside him. "The doctors said you were not to leave your bed for another week," she said gently, taking his hand in hers, "what were you up for? You could have called if you'd needed anything."

Childermass glanced guiltily at the comb still on the floor, and shook his head, "Nowt important." Hannah gave him an ironical, disbelieving look. "Very well," he sighed, "I was trying to brush my hair. This great knot has gathered at the nape of my neck, you see, where the ribbon has got tangled, and it's driving me spare."

Hannah chuckled, "In which case, Mr Childermass, would you like some assistance in addressing that?" she asked with an affectionate smile.

Childermass wrinkled his nose, "No, I'm sure I..."

"John, love," she interrupted, firmly but softly, squeezing his hand, "please don't be stubborn. Just for once."

Childermass studied their intertwined hands, wrestling with his pride. Dependency sat ill with him, even in his injured state, but he was so very tired, and so very sore, and of anyone in this household Hannah had no cause to harm him. He sighed and gave a reluctant nod. "If you insist. Shall I move to a stool?"

Hannah bit her lip and considered the options of where best to sit her patient, "No..." she said slowly, "no I think it best you stay on the bed. If you take another turn, you've summat soft to topple onto." Childermass grumbled at the accusation of having taken a turn, as Hannah retrieved the fallen comb and knelt on the bed behind him. She smoothed his hair with her palm, taking stock of it's state, and sucked in a breath through her teeth, "I see what you mean about it being all a-tangle," she said, "it could do with a wash, too, I think there's still a bit of blood in there. That'll have to wait until the wound is healed, though, and the warmer weather, or you'll catch your death and I've had quite enough of that."

Childermass laughed, and winced. 

Hannah went to work, trying to unknot the ribbon that held back the tattered remains of the queue of hair. "It's no good," she said at last, "I'm going to have to cut it." Childermass started. "The ribbon, you daft a'pe'th!" she cried, and Childermass, grudgingly, composed himself. Producing a small pair of scissors from her pockets, she carefully snipped the ribbon's knot, at spread Childermass' hair across his shoulders. At first she used her fingers to work out the worst knots, watching with a small sense of satisfaction as Childermass' eyes closed and his breath slowed as she gently carded her nails across his scalp. She moved on to the comb, taking great care not to pull or snag his long hair. She worked quickly and skilfully; although she had never been a lady's-maid, the girls below stairs relied on one and other to dress their hair and she was well practices. 

Under her ministrations, Childermass's weariness overcame him, and he let himself relax. Although he would be loathe to confess it, Hannah's caressing touches were a great comfort, and he had need of comforting right now. It had been an unpleasant and confusing week, and he was heartily sick of it. For the first time since he'd been shot, Childermass felt grounded, secure. Perhaps she could tell, he wondered, for he was certain now that she had conquered the tangles and was continuing to comb him for it's own sake. The scratch of the comb's teeth over his scalp sent little tingles of pleasure down his neck, and an involuntary groan escaped his lips.

"You have no idea how good that feels," he murmured, dropping his head back to rest on her breast.

Hannah chuckled behind him, "Make the most of it, it's the best you're getting until you're mended."

A well of sorrow opened up where Childermass' heart should be, out of nowhere. He pulled away, "That's not what I mean," he said softly, surprised at his emotion.

Hannah put her arm around his waist, pulling him close again, "I know," she whispered, "I am sorry. I was teasing."

They sat in silence a while. Although Hannah was warm against his back, Childermass felt cold from within, a yawning ache of foreboding and loss and grief yet to be earned. He swallowed, struggling to find the words to express his fears to his confidante.

"I think, perhaps, it is time we ceased seeking each other's comfort," he said at last, "I have a sense I may not be long in this household, and I should not wish you to be hurt when I leave."

Hannah hugged him a little tighter, "Shush," she said, kissing him on the temple, "not this again, not now. For as long as it was mutually convenient and pleasurable, those were the terms of our engagement, and that is all I will hold you to, no more, no less. Of course I'll be sad when you leave, that is unavoidable, but cutting the thread prematurely will only cause us both sorrow. So stop being honourable, it doesn't suit you."

Childermass nodded ruefully, quietly glad that one of them was still thinking sensibly.

"Speaking of cutting thread," said Hannah, matter-of-factly, "I'm afraid that ribbon is done for, and I do not have a spare about my person. Are you content to leave your hair loose for the time being?"

"Aye, I think so," he replied, "and I can always fetch one if it begins to vex me."

"You will do nothing of the sort, Mr Childermass," said Hannah, moving off the bed to face him. Her tone was stern, but she smiled and her eyes twinkled with affection, "And if I catch you out of bed again, I'll ask the doctors for more laudanum. It might make you talk nonsense, but you were considerably more manageable when you were away with the fairies."

Childermass shivered; the cold, vast sky was back again, and he felt like he might fall into it at the slightest movement. Hannah looked concerned again.

"Hannah," he said in a small voice, "were you busy when you came to look in on me?"

"Nothing that won't keep," she replied, taking his hand.

"Could you, perhaps, stay a while with me?"

"Of course, petal, now let's get you back into bed."

 

And so Hannah sat quietly with Childermass a while. The veil between worlds felt thin and fragile right now, and Childermass was not sure it would ever feel solid again, but her hand in his was a tether to England, and he was sure he would not fall into the sky yet.


	4. December, 1817

Starecross Hall at three o'clock in the morning was rather less quiet than one might expect. Certainly, human activity had all but ceased some hours ago, but by virtue of age as much as the magic that infused it, the house itself continued it's own murmured dialogue with it's environment. The winter winds hummed in the chimneys and rattled the windows; ancient timbers protested quietly as they tried to settle for the night. To some, this may have seemed melancholic, unsettling even, yet Childermass found himself considering it rather fondly. The sound of the wind and the creak of wood recalled to him a period in his youth that wasn't too terrible, all told, and this was oddly comforting. Unfortunately, it was neither sufficiently comforting nor soothing to have any sort of soporific effect, and he remained tediously awake. From time to time, he would attempt to doze, but as soon as he closed his eyes and bid his mind to be quiet, the riddle that was Vinculus' book imposed itself loudly on his consciousness. Concluding this tactic to be ineffectual, he had begun to read one of Miss Greysteel's novels in an attempt to bore himself to sleep, but the tale was so preposterous, and the characters' actions so ridiculous, that it served only to annoy him into greater wakefulness. 

 

The wind altered it's direction, making the small fire in the grate flare and crackle. The great, dark beech trees began to scratch and tap against the parlour windows. With this addition to the score, it was not entirely surprising that the slight creak and swish of the door being opened went unheard, nor that Childermass remained unaware he was no longer alone until a poorly stifled gasp made him start. Emma Wintertowne (as she now named herself) stood in the doorway, an unearthly vision in a cream-coloured blanket and white nighdress, her hair undone, a candlestick glowing in her hand, and a shocked expression upon her pale face. Perhaps an individual more given to fancy would be taken aback by this, but Childermass merely smirked, "You look like you've escaped from a Mrs Radcliffe novel."

Miss Wintertowne, forgetting her shock at unexpected company, raised an ironical eyebrow at him but refrained from riposte. Rather, she regarded him quizzically, where he reclined among a sort of nest of cushions, back resting against the sopha, "Why are you sitting on the floor?"

Childermass shrugged, "Couldn't sleep."

Miss Wintertowne frowned at this somewhat contrary answer, and, placing her candlestick upon a side-table, sat down gingerly at the furthest end of the sopha from Childermass. "Me neither," she sighed, "bad memories." The beech-trees redoubled their groaning and scratching, and she shuddered,  "I'm certain that sound is following me around the house."

Childermass attempted a sympathetic sort of smile, something resembling remorse at his part in the young woman's torment shifting sharply in his breast. Miss Wintertown returned him a brave little smile, and with a brittle sort of brightness enquired if there was anything left in the earthenware teapot on the grate. Childermass said he there was, and that she new where the teacups were. Once Miss Wintertowne had furnished herself with a drink she settled herself back on the sopha, this time behind Childermass' head. For a while, they were content to sit, and listen to the wind and the trees and the house for a while.

 

At length, Miss Wintertowne broke the silence, "Tell me a story. Not about magic."

Childermass considered this request - this _demand_ \- for a moment, letting his head fall back against the sopha and Miss Wintertowne's blanket. And then, he began to tell of when the ship on which he had served as cabin boy had been set upon by privateers in the Bay of Biscay. The privateers had grossly underestimated the crew's numbers, and collective skill at arms, and had been sent limping back to shore less their booty, their rum, and (because the captain's tricorn had been swept into the sea during the melee) their hats. Upon reflection, he supposed to himself, it was perhaps not the most appropriate story to tell to a young lady, but Miss Wintertowne was of rather more hardy mental fortitude than most, and seemed to be enjoying it immensely. While he was recounting his adventures, a curious thing occurred: Miss Wintertowne began to toy with his hair. At first, she casually smoothed the loose tendrils back from his face, sometimes twisting them around her fingers before letting it fall. Then, completely unprompted and uninvited, she loosed his queue from it's ribbon, and began to idly run her fingers through it's length, and carding her nails over his scalp, as though petting a particularly long-haired cat. More curiously yet, Childermass realised, he did not find this unpleasant. He should, by rights, be aggrieved of this intrusion into his personal space, but yet he was quite content for her not to stop.

 

"I must confess," she said, when he had finished his tale, "you are really not what I had come to expect of you, five months ago."

"How so?"

"Romantic histories aside, I suppose I had thought to assume you to be like the other magicians of my acquaintance - arrogant, self-absorbed, paternalistic - and between your connection to Norrell and your reputation for impudence and brusqueness, I had not thought I would like you at all."

Childermass had, during her ministrations, allowed his eyes to fall closed. Without opening them, he raised an eyebrow.

"And yet I find myself with a certain admiration for you," she continued, "you are one of the few magicians who pays attention to what I say, or what Miss Redruth or Miss Greysteel say, for that matter. You don't suffer fools. And, while I'm sure you'll deny it as slander, you are kinder than you let on and care deeply for our peculiar little household here."

Childermass laughed, and still did not open his eyes, "I'll accept that I have little tolerance for foolishness, and that I see no reason to discount your experience and opinions on the grounds of your sex, but I feel your assessment of magicians in general is unfair. What about Mr Segundus, for example?"

"Mr Segundus doesn't count, he was barely a magician when I met him. And you, sir, are not like Mr Segundus. John is sweet, and modest, and gentle, and you are... a _challenge._ "

"A challenge?"

"I may have an admiration for you, Mr Childermass, but you still vex me enormously at times." Her hands in his hair stilled. "May I ask how I have lived up to your expectations of me?"

Now, at last, he opened his eyes and studied her heart-shaped face, with it's dark eyes that were too old for her girlish features. "I must confess," he said at last, "that I had very few preconceptions of you when we re-met in July. I knew that you had gone through a great deal of hardship, I knew you were determined and brave to have survived them, and I knew you were rather fierce. It seems on that last point I was wrong."

"Oh?" said Miss Wintertowne, indignantly.

"Indeed. You're bloody terrifying," he grinned. Emma wrinkled her nose, balled the hand in his hair into a fist, and gently rocked his head side to side. To both of their surprise, this elicited a low purr from Childermass.

"I jest," he continued with a little cough, "it is true I had few preconceptions of your character, other than I expected you to be significantly more set against magic than you have turned out to be. But I have found you to be brave, and determined, and practical minded. And witty - I don't think that old bore Foxcastle knew what hit him. And... yes... I confess I have developed an admiration for you, too."

All of a suddenly, his chest felt tight, like he had said too much and she would... he didn't know. But Emma was smiling at him, thoughtfully, still toying with his hair. The clock struck four, jolting them out of the moment. Miss Wintertowne glared at the clock.

"I'm glad we have had this conversation, Mr Childermass," she said, releasing his hair, "and I'm glad that we have become friends. Despite your best attempts."

Childermass smiled, "Likewise, I'm sure."

Miss Wintertowne sat up straight, and stretched, "I think I might go and attempt sleep again." She picked herself  and her blanket up off the sopha, retrieved her candle, and headed for the door. With her hand on the doorknob, she turned to Childermass and said, "Thank you, for keeping me company. It's been most pleasant. Perhaps," she paused, and glanced down, biting her lip, "perhaps we can keep each other company again one night." And with that, she left, and Childermass watched her go wondering what exactly she had meant by her last speech. He certainly would not sleep now.


	5. February 1818

Childermass paced the small bedroom at Somerset House, shuffling through the index card upon which he had written key points for his speech as though he might divine the future with them. For the past hour, if not longer, there had been great commotion about the building as delegates and spectacle-seekers had arrived for this evening's event: A Lecture Upon The Present State of English Magic. It had been a year since any major news or formal discourse on the subject, as far as London was concerned, and there was a great public hunger for information. Glancing out of the window, Childermass saw that there was still a great line of coaches drawn up along the road approaching the building, even with barely half an hour to go before the lecture hall opened. He took a long, deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Even stood here, notes in hand, he was not wholly convinced he was the correct man for  this duty. It should, he felt, have befallen someone more practised in academia and public speaking: Mr Segundus would have been his first choice, or Purfois or Hadley-Bright, even bloody Foxcastle at a push. But, the opinion of the Society of York Magicians had been unanimous; through his association with both Norrell _and_ Strange, his work in trying to decipher the Raven King's book, and his knowledge of magical theory, he was indeed the only suitable candidate. At the time, he had been flattered. Now, he found himself seriously of the mind that he would rather be shot again than go through with presenting the lecture.

 

There was a rap at the door, and a muffled "Halloo, Childermass! May I come in?", but before he could respond, Mr Segundus had already let himself in. "I came to see how you were doing," he said brightly, and then gave Childermass an appraising look, "You're looking very..."

"Don't you dare say respectable."

"I wouldn't dream of accusing you of such a thing," retorted Segundus archly, "I was going to say handsome." Childermass snorted with laughter, and Segundus duly ignored him. He gave his friend an affectionate pat on the arm, "How are you feeling?", he asked.

"About as comfortable as a man can be in a dead man's clothes," replied Childermass, with a wry grin.

Segundus frowned, "Don't be unkind. Mr Strange may be indisposed but he is not dead, and it was very kind of Mrs Strange to donate his mourning clothes to you. Mrs Honeyfoot has done an excellent job on retailoring them. This, however," and here he gave a stray lock of Childermass' hair a flick, "will not do. You look like you've been through a hedge backwards."

Childermass shrugged, "It does that. It has been doing that for the better part of forty-six years. I have quite resigned myself from the notion it will ever do anything else."

Segundus raised a sceptical eyebrow, "Hmm, well, let us see what we can do in any case. Come, I grew up around a veritable army of female cousins, I know how this works," and Childermass, with an amount of grumbled protestations, allowed himself to be fussed into sitting at the small dressing-table.

 

Mr Segundus set to work on Childermass' unruly mane, casually recounting some ridiculous story about Mrs Honeyfoot's recent attempt at crème brulee and her tribulations at achieving the correct level of wobble. Slowly but surely, with each pass of the comb, the knot of anxiety in Childermass' stomach began to loosen, and his impending presentation felt less daunting. Despite his annoyance at the younger magician's fussing, he had to confess to himself he was glad for his presence. The small-talk was a welcome distraction, certainly, but the closeness of his friend was the greater balm on his nerves. He was struck, all of a sudden, by a memory of an earnest, upturned face in the snowy dawn light, bravely refusing to sign a contract, refusing to let go of the thing he loved best . Now, the lamplight behind Segundus in the mirror gave the impression of a halo around him, and the effect inspired in Childermass a strange, aching emotion that he could not quite place. It was all at once like gratitude, or relief perhaps, and yet painfully akin to loneliness.

"I'm glad we are friends, Mr Segundus," he said, though he had not meant to speak them out loud.

Segundus looked at Childermass thoughtfully, "Yes," he said, "as am I. We may have got off to a poor start, but I am thankful we have managed to resolve our differences."

"I thought we got off to a fine start, it was the middle period of our acquaintance that was awkward. And those weren't even my differences."

Segundus laughed, as he reached over to retrieve a ribbon from the table, "In any case, it seems we were fated to be the greatest of friends, or the bitterest of enemies, if Miss Greysteel's novels are to be believed."

"Well, that or lovers," said Childermass ironically.

Segundus went very still all of a sudden, and looked downcast, "You should not jest about such things," he said quietly, his hand resting on Childermass' shoulder, "men are hanged for that, and I dare say there are those would use such suspicions against us."

"To be fair, Mr Segundus, I've done a lot in my life I could be hanged for, and of all of them _that_ is one thing I would feel the least regret for."

Segundus did not reply, but set about tying the ribbon about the queue of hair. Although his touch remained gentle and careful, his mouth was set in a thin, tense line, and a crease of concern sat upon his brow. Instantly, Childermass regretted his jest. In truth, he did not care one whit if people chose to spread innuendo and slander against himself, but it pained him to see his friend so distressed by the notion. Had it even been a joke? He had come to hold John Segundus in great esteem, and found unexpected comfort in his companionship and... oh! this made things extremely complicated and now was exactly the wrong time to give such ideas serious consideration!

 

His reverie was broken by Segundus exclaiming "There! Much better, don't you think?" Looking at his newly tidied reflection, Childermass was not entirely convinced, it seemed to make his sharp features and silvery scar far to prominent; such matters felt trivial right now, but he thanked Segundus for his help in any case. Getting to his feet, he said, "I'm sorry, John, for being boorish. I did not mean to..." but Segundus waved the matter away.

"You have nothing to apologise for," he interrupted, "I'm only concerned about your reputation, particularly as you have become the figurehead of our society whether you like it or not. Stick to wild and romantic, your audience understands that," he added with a smirk, straightening out Childermass' lapel.

Childermass laughed, "Oh do bugger off with that nonsense! In any case, it's an inexcusably false reputation, anyone who knows me knows I'm about as romantic as a boot."

"Debatable..."

 

There was a loud knocking at the door that made them both start, and a voice from without cried "Ready when you are, sir!". The stillness that followed was heavy and thick as snow.

"I think, perhaps, you and I need to have a talk when we get home," said Childermass at last, unable to meet his friend's eye, "but now is not the time for it. First I must go and pretend I know what I'm talking about in front of two-hundred-odd people."

"I believe we probably do," sighed Segundus, "but look here," he added, more forcefully and taking Childermass' hand, "you _do_ know what you're talking about. I have faith in you."

Childermass looked up, and seeing his companion's fond smile returned a grin that was, for once, neither ironical nor wry, "I know. And by book and bird, I am glad for it."


End file.
